I haven't explained this phenomenon, have I?
Sure, you might have read the book by psych author Dan Kiley, but you really have no idea how dangerous a condition this is until you're burned by it.
I've met a couple Peter Pans, boys in all-grown-up bodies with the thoughts and desires and aspirations of those who play with Matchbox cars and drink Capri Sun.
One severe case involves a man who has a great job. He's probably earning close to six figures in a very high profile profession. He wears nothing but the best suits to work and drives around in a fancy German car with two names.
On paper, it seems like he has it all together, but his personal life is quite the opposite. He has every Star Wars movie memorized. He's turned his dining room into his own personal pool hall and he always has a stash of smoky treats on hand.
Patient A likes to wear a baseball cap backwards on his head. His music tastes have yet to evolve from his college selections of Dave Matthews and the Smiths. His food tastes lean towards the frozen pizzas on standby, chips and salsa, or those taquitos you can buy in bulk at Sam's Club.
This man is a lot of fun to be around. He throws caution to the wind, ignores all sense of responsibility and even commits federal crimes (and other crimes that are illegal in several states) from time to time. The trouble is he fails to make the jump to reality when a situation warrants it.
Patient A likes girlfriends. He likes going on dates and hanging around inside. He likes all the entrapments that lead up to a serious relationship (sleepovers, trips to Vegas, fun presents), but his ailment prohibits him from actually cementing any sort of responsible, emotional bond with a woman. He has left several victims in his path, all believing they were going to be able to cure him of his affliction.
I've met a few other victims of this virus. They all have similar symptoms: Dave Matthews, hat on backwards, stockpile of junk food. Usually you can find a Sega or an X Box or something similar in an apartment that has remmants of the Fraternity House.
Steer clear of Peter Pan. He's terminal.